adult, had a raincoat in/
Seattle. She does.

No matter how well /
you think you can do something, /
let pros handle it.
Giant red cedars./
Moss. Ferns. Rain. Gray skies. Traffic.
I don’t miss a thing.
You try to save cash,/
but sometimes you have to pay/
for mistakes you make.
You have proclaimed it:
We can stand, wit to wit.
But now, see my postings erased.
Such pained bantering is not my taste.
I apologize … and quit.
It’s interesting/
how people read mean meanings/
when no mean is meant.
She who must proclaim/
herself a great muse is not/
likely to be one.
Each time I take a/
shower so hot it burns my/
skin, I think of her.
Cleaning house
in service
for those who can’t
or won’t,
I play an old tape.
Hell yeah!
It’s Mahalia
Jackson,
Sleep in Heavenly Peace.
I can’t contain
the torrent of tears
as I clean
even more earnestly
because that’s all I can do now.
Now that I’ve left.
Now that I’ve ripped
lives apart.
This used to be
my city,
my town,
my house,
my family,
my life.
This music brought joy
down the stairs.
I have tapes.
I have videos.
This used to be everything
I lived for.
But now,
I’m cleaning the living room,
and
there is no room.